A Study of the Crying Girl
by Gypsy Feet
Summary: You never were any good at being sane. xOneshotx


**A Study of the Crying Girl**

**By:** Em

**Betaed By:** Izzie (still the best out there!)

**Spoilers:** Informed Consent

**Summary:**You never were any good at being sane.

**A/N: **So, yes. I'm guessing this'll be a bit out of place after Half Wit. And I know I haven't written in ages, but whatever. Hope this isn't as awful as I suspect it might be.

II

_047. it's a cold day in a cruel world,  
I really wished I could have saved you;  
then who would save me from myself?_

II

It's a pew beneath you.

Hard and flat, the grains of wood harsh against your fingertips. There's not quite enough blood reaching your toes and you're thinking _maybe_ you should move.

(**this is the bit where we reminisce about terror curling in cold tendrils through your blood, paralysing you with measured assurance**)

There's still that ghost, his hand on your shoulder, and you could've _sworn_—

—but then, life never really follows the rules she writes.

(**you remember twenty-one with the four crescent scars on your palm from waiting **

**waiting **

**waiting**

**for an ending**)

II

You're lying on your bed. There's a small pile of clean clothes that you meant to put away yesterday underneath you. It's uncomfortable but then— you sigh.

Your hand is stretched carefully on your stomach, in the dip between your hips (_convex_ you remember whispering, the new word twisting strangely in your mouth _like a hole?_)

You work on breathing, (it's getting harder these days) in and out. Like the hokey-pokey.

The phone murmurs a lazy **buzz buzz** and you flick your eyes to the ceiling and don't move to answer it. Instead you slide your hand to your thigh and trace a horizontal line. And then again and again and again.

(**there's comfort in the repetition**)

II

It's three in the morning and your hands are raw and wet. There's an antiseptic wash on the bathroom counter, mostly empty by now, and a nailbrush.

You don't look yourself in the mirror as you scrub at the blood (**you wouldn't recognise the little girl staring back at you**) just watch with a fascinated frustration as it clings to you.

There's pain—

You've just forgotten life without it.

It's only when the bottle is empty that you pause and evaluate. The soft skin on your hands has been stripped back, there is blood on the scrubber (**there's a moment of sick relief when you realise it's yours**) and caked under your nails.

You decide something must be wrong with you when your knees buckle and you vomit on the little gleaming white tiles in your bathroom. You stare a moment — lost in the past and an old man's glassy eyes — before lying your head down and closing your eyes.

You never were any good at being sane.

II

Your biro is black.

You've flipped over the form you were filling out (**everyone knows that paper is such the biggest anticlimax**) and you've got a haemoglobin molecule sketched out on the back.

The lines hold none of the insecurity that you're finding hard to cover with your foundation— you've gone two shades paler— you kind of think they've got more direction than you.

It's funny the details we all remember (**his smile, the way he said your name, the weight of a gold ring on your finger**

**it was gold**

**not silver**

**you'd remember silver**

**surely**) in all the rush of your schooling the diagram of a molecule has haunted on. There was no hesitation as you drew, just facts spiralling out and staining the pure white of the paper.

Blood looks a little less scary, painted in logic and science. Just letters and lines, shapes and messes of data.

(**sometimes, we like hiding in _let's play pretend_**)

II

Your scarf isn't enough protection from the early evening chill. It might just be you though, sometime in the past cold transcended from a temperature into unknown territory (**emotions come in little brown parcels of pain**).

'Traumatized hero really doesn't match your 'do, Cameron.'

You turn, startled, to be swallowed in calm blue eyes. He's too close. You shiver and shut your eyes against your ghosts — it'll take too long to examine his exact effect on you.

You spread your fingers out and wince at the pain that burns still (there's the past, and yet, you can't hide from the scent of antiseptic.) You shake your head and tell yourself it's because your fringe has caught in your lashes. It's a lie you won't chastise yourself for— it's easier to leave this to tomorrow's regrets.

'Seriously,' he breathes before surprising you again by pressing his lips to your nose gently.

(**it's funny, even when we don't laugh, because it isn't all patronizing**)

II

Later, you get a package in the mail. There is a box of matches and a collection of medical journals by Ezra Powell.

II

Your eyes are wide in the mirror, and there's a few ashes caught in your hair.

(**welcome home, we missed your smile**)

II


End file.
